Greek Tragedy
by Countryole
Summary: "This would be way outside FBI jurisdiction if it weren't for Jane's tattoos, and the joint operation with interpol just so happened to need two agents to pose as a married couple, and with their old aliases from their previous undercover missions at the ready…" Jane and Kurt get drawn into a mission in the Mediterranean that's more than they bargained for. Set sometime after 1x11.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** _this started out as an ask prompt over on Tumblr. It's kinda turned into this mission fic. I have a dozen other stories I am working on (like Bloodsport, for example, need to get on that!), so I am not sure how fast this will be updated, but hopefully y'all will enjoy it anyways. Who doesn't like Kurt, Jane, a crazy international mission and the beach? Set somewhere tentatively after 1.11. Title derived from my musical inspiration, the song by The Wombats. ;)_

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 ** _Greek Tragedy_**

 _"Ruin, eldest daughter of Zeus, she blinds us all, that fatal madness—she with those delicate feet of hers, never touching the earth, gliding over the heads of men to trap us all. She entangles one man, now another." — Homer, The Iliad._

Kurt Weller has had his fair share of shitty mission locations.

There was his first op, fresh out of Quantico, where he was forced to stake out a subway station for a week posing as a homeless person. There was also that one unfortunate time he and Reade spent a week in a safe house near China Town, where they were forced to eat takeout from the restaurant downstairs for every meal. They ended up with food poisoning. Kurt also remembers, clearly, the time he spent three months undercover trying to bust one of the biggest street gangs in New York City, the same op her met Tasha on. She almost shot him in the ass.

So Mykonos, Greece, the travel mecca and cosmopolitan party hub of the Aegean, is hardly a bad gig. This is especially so considering his list of things to do today consist of sitting at this beachside bar on the agencies dime while he tries to scope out their target; a well to do business man with a penchant for moonlighting as an arms dealer for a suspected terrorist group tied to the suicide bombings that took place in Paris and Brussels. This would be way outside FBI jurisdiction if it weren't for Jane's tattoos, and the joint operation with interpol just so happened to need two agents to pose as a married couple, and with their old aliases from their previous undercover missions at the ready…

He knows it shouldn't be this easy, to fall back into this role they've created in this husband and wife charade, in these characters they play, but it is. What's worse is that here, where they're on their own, where Mayfair and the team aren't the ones on the end of the coms, or watching them via security feeds like they would back at the NYO, it's all too easy to get lost in the game. Maybe it's this place, the wild atmosphere of the city around him, and the people who seem to materialize from it, or maybe it's something else. Kurt hasn't been able to shake it since they stepped off the private jet at the airstrip, him in a three piece suit, and Jane in a dress she definitely never would have worn at home.

Something about the way Jane looks at him feels different, heavier, and the weight of her eyes just as constant as the weight of the wedding ring on his finger.

Kurt glances down at the band now, spins it absentmindedly with his thumb, before turning his attention back to the quickly filling bar. Out near the water the waves crash alongside the sound of a hundred different voices, and the steady beat of the music thrums through the air, just as alive as the people who dance to it. Kostas Makris, their target, is no where to be seen though; they hadn't expected him to arrive until tomorrow, but Jane had pointed out it'd be a waste to sit in their room all night, and it's always better to be safe rather than sorry if he did show up.

Surely her suggestion stems from a purely professional standpoint, and nothing else. At least that's what Kurt keeps trying to tell himself. However, the look on her face when she'd said it suggested something else entirely.

Kurt downs the rest of his Martini with a quick toss to the back of his throat, and the liquor burns on the way down, but he's glad. _Clear your head, Weller._

He just so happens to glance back toward the hotel, back toward the sweeping steps, and all hopes of clearing his head dissipate into thin air, swallowed up by the fading light of the sunset and the too-loud music that beats in time with the heart that's starting to hammer in his chest. The bar tender in front of him follows Kurt's all but open mouthed stare up the stairs of the resort that sprawl out toward the beach it's nestled on, to the woman descending them.

If it weren't for Jane's tattoos, he probably wouldn't have recognized her. The sheer shawl wrapped around her waist, her cover up, does little to cover much of anything. It floats around her long legs as she walks, hanging low on her hips, and the black one-piece swimsuit she's wearing is far from modest. There's literally no back to it besides the halter top holding it around her neck, and it dips so low that it falls below the hexagon tattoo at her spine, revealing skin Kurt's sure he's only ever seen in pictures. The sides of the swimsuit are cut out, and the v at the front of it appears to be endless. Jane meets Kurt's eyes from across the expanse of the space between them, and he can feel it again, that heavy, impossible weight of her green eyes burning into him.

"Would you like another?" The young bartender asks, gesturing to Kurt's empty glass with a grin. "I think you might need it."

"Yeah," Kurt agrees, nodding, his eyes never leaving Jane's, "I think I might."

Jane approaches through the throng of people, graceful, calculated, far more confident in herself here amongst strangers than he's ever seen her amongst friends at home. There's something dangerous about the way she moves as she cuts through the crowd, something lethal, and Kurt isn't ever sure in these moments who he's seeing; the assassin she's posing as, or the real woman he still knows so little about. The sea of bodies at the bar parts for her easily, and Jane doesn't hesitate as she claims her seat beside Kurt, reaching for his hand and threading her fingers through his once she's settled on her barstool. Before he can say anything she pulls his hand up in front of her, admiring the wedding band there, and when she turns to him she has a smile on her face.

" _James_."

Jane grins at the name, his fake name, and the way she says it is so sultry, so brazen, so perfectly in character it almost unsettles him. The way she looks at him, openly and without reservation, almost unsettles him. It almost makes him want to break cover just so he can ask the question that's tortured him ever since they arrived on the island.

 _Is it really an act, or is it something else?_

She raises his hand to her lips, kissing the ring squarely, her mouth lingering there for just a moment before lowering both their hands back to the bar. She notes his silence, his smoldering blue eyes, and her smile widens. She's seems satisfied, as if she knows exactly what she's doing, as if she _intended_ it.

" _Gwen_."

Even as Kurt replies, all he can think about is how much he'd like her mouth on his instead. All he can think about is how much he'd like to kiss that smug smile right off her face.

He doesn't though, because despite the fact that they needed to convince the outside world of the roles they were playing, the unspoken agreement between them only necessitated for minimum expressions of affection. What he'd like to do to her definitely doesn't fall in those parameters. Kissing her now, kissing her senseless like he wants—as in character as it would have been for the notoriously promiscuous James Harding—is the last thing Kurt Weller needs to do.

Instead Kurt smiles back, turning toward her as reaches down between them and grabs the stool she's sitting on. Without warning he jerks it forward, and Jane lets out a small noise of surprise, clutching his hand tighter when she almost tumbles into his lap. Kurt laughs when the wide-eyed look on her face quickly becomes murderous, but with his end result achieved he doesn't mind that she's glaring daggers at him. She's trapped between the V of his legs and the bar, and he slides his arm around her waist, waving to the waiter with his free hand. He tries, and fails, not to think about just how warm her bare skin feels against his fingers.

"For the missus?" The bartender grins at them, towel over his shoulder, gesturing to the assortment of alcohol towering on the wall behind him.

Kurt's pleasantly surprised when Jane relaxes, her initial surprise dissipating, and she adjusts herself in her seat, leaning back against him, bracing against his chest. Kurt can't help but notice just how perfectly she fits there, as if she were always meant to, and he has to swallow the overwhelming urge to touch her more than he already is. It would be _so easy_ to lean forward and press a kiss to the back of her neck. It would be so easy to wrap both of his arms around her waist, to slide his hands between legs…

 _Jesus christ, Weller. Get a grip on yourself._

That's the problem, really, with all of this. It's too easy. Being here with her like this, mission or not, is all too easy. And how is that even possible, when everything between them is so incredibly complicated?

"Jeffersons, please, if you have it," Jane tells the bartender, "and on the rocks—it's a little warm out here."

"Wonder why?" Kurt leans forward, murmuring more to himself than anything, but he's in her ear when he says it. He throws more than enough euros on the bar-top, and wonders briefly how often the FBI has to explain expenditures like this when adjusting the budget. "Martini, dirty." Kurt adds, and the bartender nods, eyeing them both with a grin before turning to make their drinks.

"Seen our friend?" Jane asks, and Kurt's blessedly relieved that the topic at hand has turned to their business, giving him something else to think about besides how close he is to crossing all the lines he promised he wouldn't. He shakes his head no, considering the crowd at the bar, and then his blue eyes travel to the equally blue waves crashing along the beach scattered with people.

There's a separate sea of bodies besides the Aegean tonight, the kind that wear red soled heels and suits with names he probably can't pronounce, amongst other items and accessories that probably cost more than his yearly salary. Thanks to the half-dressed women encrusted in jewels of all sorts, the flashy men with their expensive imported cars, in combination with the excess of liquor, it's easy to see that the resort-goers are a very specific group of people. They're the kind of individuals have more money than propriety or sense.

Which is exactly why a man like Kostas Makris uses a place like this for his business deals. According to the interpol agents they've worked with so far on this case, money can buy almost anything in Mykonos—privacy included. Here at the Mykonos Grand Hotel And Resort in particular, where Makris just so happens to be a major benefactor, no one blinks an eye at his questionable friendships or practices, and most importantly no one asks any questions when people start disappearing.

There's also some benefit in the unpredictable patterns of the people here, and it actually works in Kurt and Jane's favor that nothing is too outlandish or strange in this place—though mostly it works for Jane. Given the attire for a beachside resort, they'd decided to forgo trying to hide her tattoos. It would've been impossible at best, and so Jane's tattoos remains mostly unmodified, save for temporarily covering his name across her back with a blacked out hexagon to match the one on her lower back. Kurt stares at that space between her shoulder blades now, and even though he can't really see his name, he still does.

"He left South Africa on time according to the flight manifest," Kurt says quietly after the bartender delivers their drinks, his eyes traveling to the tattoo at the back of her left bicep, the one that led them here. It's a series of numbers hidden amongst the ruins of Greek columns, coordinates that lined up with Makris' movements over the last two years. "He should be here by tomorrow evening, as long as his connecting flight in Dubai isn't delayed."

"And we still don't know who he's meeting?" Jane asks, sipping her drink and crossing her legs. The thrum of the music and the dim evening light help to to hide their conversation from passing ears and eyes.

"Not yet," Kurt frowns, martini in hand, but he doesn't drink it yet. "It's the only thing that's off about this, the fact that there's not a name for his buyer. Makris might be a loose canon with his wallet, but not when it comes to his weapons. He crosses his t's and dots his i's. Borden said he's the kind of guy who likes control—"

"—so it's hard to imagine he'd go into a business transaction like this completely blind." Jane finishes Kurt's thought, and this time she's the one frowning. She tilts her head to the side, catches Kurt's gaze as she rests her head against his shoulder. "It could be a trap, you know. He might realize someone's on to him." She adds quietly, seriously, searching his face.

"I've considered that," Kurt finally raises his drink to his lips, taking a long draw on it, savoring the bite of the gin. He sets it back down beside her bourbon, and then peers down at her, thinking about the dossier he's got memorized in his head about the man their trying to incriminate, but he's also thinking about the way Jane's eyes seemed to be framed by the dark waves of hair around her face.

"We play it safe," Jane smooths a reassuring hand along Kurt's arm, sensing his unease, "we keep our cover and hope we get a chance to bug his hotel room. If we can do that, we can get the evidence interpol needs to arrest him."

Kurt wants to tell her that there's nothing safe about what they're doing, that he sometimes regrets having agreed to do this mission with so many unknown variables, not only with the criminals they're dealing with, but for Jane too. She's so confident that they'll succeed, so sure of him and her together, but he can't help but wonder if she's thought about the consequences if things were to go wrong. There's still so much they don't know about _her_ past, or the people who might have been in it. If this whole thing ended up being a trap, a ruse diverged by Makris—or worse, someone who wanted to target her—Kurt doesn't want to think about what will happen if he can't keep her safe.

"James? Hey, you ok?"

Kurt blinks at the sound of Jane's voice, at the sound of the name he forget's is his, and he realizes she's still got her head against his shoulder, that she's still frowning, but this time for different reasons. Kurt forces a crooked grin, tries to mask his anxiety from her by doing so, but he knows it's too little too late. He can tell by the way she watches him, by the worry at the corners of her eyes, and in the line of her mouth as her lips press together, that she already sees what he's doing to himself. He's never been very good at hiding anything from her.

"I'm fine, promise."

It's a lie though, and it's not just a lie for the moment, but for everything else too. He hasn't been fine for a long time now. Not since they found her in Times Square, not since he saw that scar on her neck, not since they almost died in that goddamn plane, and not since she left him wondering on that goddamn park bench back in New York City all those weeks ago. They still haven't talked about that, about _that kiss_ , or what exactly they both meant when they'd decided things were _too complicated_.

He resists the urge to have that conversation now, knowing full well this isn't the time, or the place.

"You sure?" She presses, eyes narrowed, not buying it.

"Positive." Kurt grabs her hand, squeezing it, all while the blood rushes to his head.

She's silent for a second, and Kurt thinks she might just try to call him on his bluff, to press the issue—that she might try to argue with him. But she doesn't.

"Ok," Jane acquiesces, but her eyes give away her reluctance.

Part of him dreads the day she does choses to fight his continued silence, while another part of him desperately wishes she would.

Jane finishes her first bourbon, then a second, and then she suggests they head back to the room for the night instead, and Kurt agrees. He knocks back his fourth martin without flinching. It isn't until Jane pulls away from him that he realizes just how comfortable he's become, sitting here with her, pretending. Now, watching her stand, watching her spin and reach a hand out to him in the soft nighttime shadows, he can't help but feel the absence of her body against his like a gaping hole. The warmth of where she'd rested against his chest is replaced by a chilling reminder that despite the rings on their fingers, the name they are sharing, none of it's real.

Kurt has to try and remind himself the entire walk back to the hotel room—even though she's hanging on his arm, laughing at him, smiling so big and so bright—that she isn't really his.

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 _ **AN:** lemme know what you think in the reviewsssss! Thanks for reading lovelies. xo_


	2. Chapter 2

In the mayhem of their last minute travel arrangements, prepping for the mission, and arriving on the island after debriefing with the interpol agents who would be monitoring them throughout their stay, Kurt had neglected to actually consider the logistics of said stay. Sure, he'd seen the room before hand, or the ridiculously luxurious suite as it were. Yes, he was aware there was only one king sized bed, but it isn't until now—laying sprawled out across it while Jane takes a shower—that the reality of his situation starts to sink in.

They'll be in the same bed together— _all night long._ Maybe, weeks ago, he might have celebrated the fact, used it to his advantage even, but things are so much different now. Even though it's a king, Kurt's still debating on whether or not he can trust himself to share it with Jane without gravitating toward her in his sleep. It wouldn't surprise him if he did, considering the last few weeks his dreams have been haunted with nothing but the ghost of her touch, her hands on his neck, her lips against his. Kurt sighs, his hands across his face, and he eyes the couch across the room from between his fingers. It would be the safer choice, but his back already aches at the mere thought of it.

Resolving to be an adult, Kurt turns his back to the couch and starts the process of mentally preparing himself for the possibility of a sleepless night. When he hears the shower shut off, and Jane move about behind the shut door, he rolls over and sits up on the edge of the bed. He busies himself with his shoes, and he bends over to work at the laces on the overpriced Hugo Boss footwear that Zapata insisted were necessary to complete his undercover wardrobe. According to Tasha—who studied their locale at length and more than necessary—the shoes screamed, in her words, "my money is sophisticated, but I'm debonair as fuck."

He kicks them both off, a little harder than necessary, into the corner of the room just as the bathroom door swings open and Jane steps out.

"Your turn," Jane tilts her head to the bathroom, her hair still wet, and Kurt can't help but think that she's just as attractive now, in sweats and a t-shirt, as she was down at the bar half-way dressed. "This place is…" Jane pauses, trying to find the right word.

"Insane?" Kurt offers, because it is, at least to him, though perhaps for different reasons.

"Over the top." Jane decides, much more diplomatic in her assessment. She pads across the room toward Kurt as he stands up, "The minibar could keep us in liquor for weeks, and that jacuzzi tub? It's big enough two people could sleep in it."

"Are you trying to tell me something?" Kurt asks, feigning innocence as Jane stops directly in front of him, and his attempt at humor earns him a half-hearted punch to the chest and a scowl.

"Kidding, kidding," Kurt holds up his hands in defeat, but he's grinning, "just don't leave any bruises ok? Abusive isn't in your dossier."

"It's not abusive if you _like_ it."

"Hm, and why would you know what I like or don't like?"

"Because, I'm your _wife_."

Kurt wonders if she remembers that day on the island, their first operation undercover, when he echoed those same exact sentiments to her.

As if to make a point, Jane holds up her left hand as a reminder, but he isn't looking at the ring on her finger. His eyes are too preoccupied with her mouth when she speaks, too preoccupied with her eyes, bright green and just as distracting as they'd been hours before. They're just as distracting as they are _all the time_ , and the urge is there again, strong and insistent as ever, to reach out and touch her. His hands want nothing more than to push the wet strands of her dark hair away from her face, to cup the back of her neck, to pull her to him without warning just as she'd done to him in New York.

The warmth of the alcohol still floating in his veins makes him consider, for just a moment, what would happen if he gave in, if he tried to settle the score. It doesn't help that he doesn't know who she's talking about anymore: their covers, or them, or both—

Too many seconds are passing, too many seconds of smothering silence that he knows will only leads to other things if he doesn't stop it. As badly as he wants to cross that line, as badly as he wants to let whatever _this_ is spiral out of control, he can't. Not tonight.

In a moment of ingenuity, or perhaps desperation, Kurt grabs her outstretched hand, and Jane starts at the touch. Before she can say anything else, before she can get any closer, he spins her away from him just a step. For a split second she's back in that black dress, at that party, and they're dancing, and things are better. But it's just for a second, and when he finally lets go of her hand she's just far enough away that he can breathe again.

"I'm going to shower," Kurt deadpans. He tries for a suave and smooth exit—the key word being _tries_. The heat at his cheeks and the way his voice almost cracks says otherwise. "We still need to check in with our interpol team," he adds, and while it's true, he mostly just needed something else to say, something to distract him from the confused look on Jane's face. "And we promised Mayfair we'd check in with her too. That laptop is set up to send encrypted emails to the safe house here, and back to the NYO," Kurt backs away toward the bathroom, lingering in the doorway. "Think you can be a good wife and handle that for me?"

Jane follows Kurt's retreat with narrowed eyes, but he can still make out the traces of a grin at the edges of her lips, the kind of knowing, aggravating look on her face that makes him want to run toward her and in the opposite direction all at once.

"Anything else I can do for you?" Jane waggles her eyebrows, picking the laptop up off the end of the bed before she heads toward the balcony doors. "Iron your suit for you, breakfast in bed tomorrow morning, let you win the next sparring match we have— _again_?"

"Hey!" Kurt doesn't even attempt to hide the exasperation in his voice, and he openly scowls at her, hands already working at the buttons of his shirt. "That was _one_ time, and who says I haven't been letting _you_ win?"

"Sure, Kurt," Jane isn't even watching him anymore, and she raises her hand, ring catching the light, waving him off as she steps out onto the balcony. He can hear her, even though she's out of sight, calling back into the room. "If that's what lets you sleep at night, just keep believing it."

He has to bite his tongue, bite back a retort, and he hangs onto the doorframe and exhales slowly, staring at the spot where she'd stood just moments before.

Little does she know there's little that let's him sleep these days, least of all thoughts of her.

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 _ **AN:** so this is just some angst and fluff, I was going to write more, but I figured wth, I'll just post this. The next bit will involve actual plot so I'll wanna spend some more time on it anyway. x)_

 _I realize that some of this might be a little farfetched, and they aren't exatly following srict protocol, but that's the beauty of fanfic amiright? Anyways, hope y'all continues to enjoy! Your reviews make me grin, thanks for all the feedback. xo_


	3. Chapter 3

_**AN:** finally, a new chapter! I have been blown away by the reviews y'all, thanks so much for all the kind comments, it really means a lot. Hopefully I'll continue to entertain you, I promise to try my best. So, initially I wanted to skip ahead, but then I decided we needed to visit with Jane for a little bit, to get a better read of where her head is at. Now that school is almost over, hopefully I can update this more regularly, thanks again for reading. xo_

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It's funny how separating the different parts of her life, the reality from fantasy, has become even more complicated sense she stepped out of that bag in Times Square all those weeks ago. There is no black and white, only shades of gray that leave her in a constant state of questioning—especially where Kurt is concerned.

Jane leaves the balcony doors open and takes a seat on the lounge with the laptop, trying not to think about the multitude of things that have been racing through her head in the last twenty four hours. The sound of running water from Kurt's shower mixes with the crash of the waves against the distant beach. There's also the hum of the excitement that's continuing at the bar, the thrum of energy somewhere far out in the dark floating through the rest of the city, and she wonders if this island ever sleeps.

It doesn't bother her though, the perpetual restless state of the people here, and part of her understands it. In some ways part of her relates to it. They're all looking for _something_ , and she imagines most of them don't know what that something is, just like her.

As she fires up laptop she emails the interpol agents for their nightly check in first, confirming their morning rendezvous at the hotel to briefly go back over their mission objectives before Kostas Makris arrives. Next, Jane begins a debrief to send to the NYO, converting the time between Mykonos and New York City in her head as she does so, jumping through numbers and hours with a familiar ease that unsettles her less than it used to. A lot of things are that way now—less surprising, less jolting. She's slowly come to accept that her varied skill sets are not only unconventional, but vast and still largely unknown.

The team is starting to accept it too, to accept her, in their own ways. They don't stare in awe anymore when Mayfair asks her to translate some foreign, dead language for the FBI analysts. Reade has come to terms with the fact that she knows _almost_ as much about disarming explosives and dissembling firearms as he does. Patterson and Tasha have almost stopped telling the story about how it only took Jane one girls night out, two rounds of bourbon and single game of blackjack to teach herself how to count cards and beat them.

It's not normalcy, but she supposes it's a close second. She's figuring out how to be more herself, and less the woman without a memory. As terrifying as everything has been, and sometimes still is, her time at the FBI has become a form of validation, a place she can exist in, thrive in even. Her initial relationship with her coworkers could have been described as sometimes hostile and emotionally distant. It's funny how time changes things, how trust changes things, and that's made all the difference—that they trust her, that she's gained that trust from them. It still overwhelms her to think that in all the chaos they've become her family; a slightly dysfunctional one at times, but her family all the same.

She's not sure they'll ever realize how much it's meant to her, to belong, to have a place to call home.

However, there's still one person she's still struggling to find solid ground with, and that's the man who's currently posing as her husband in this fake life. The same man who is the only link to the unknown past of her real life, her long lost childhood friend.

Jane bites her lip and stops typing mid sentence, looks away from her debrief, and down at the ring on her finger. It catches the light reflecting off the windows of their hotel room, as if it were trying to get her attention, as if it were trying to _taunt_ her. With a sigh she spins the diamond band with her thumb so that it's palm down, so she won't have to look at it while she finishes the debrief, and so she won't have to think about all the reasons this entire situation was a terrible, horrible idea.

 _It was your idea to accept the mission_ , she reminds herself admonishingly, _you're the one who fought for it_.

And she had, she'd been adamant that there were no other FBI agents who could fill the roles as easily as she and Kurt could, and he had agreed with her. She had argued with Mayfair that if there was even the slightest possibility her past was somehow connected, due to the various career criminals involved and their connection to the FBI's previous case regarding Rich Dotcom, she deserved an opportunity to find out for herself.

Never mind that the thought of being undercover with Kurt, again, had been enough to send her mind racing to places she never should have let it. Never mind the fact that the entire time they've been on this island she hasn't been able to keep it from going to those same places. Every time he's so much as looked at her, or touched her, her self-control has slipped further and further out of her reach. She blames their first undercover mission, how ridiculously easy it had been to just _be_ with him, for the feelings she's desperately trying to ward off now. She continues to remind herself that it had been an act, _is_ an act, and yet…

She can't help but wonder if she's insane, and sometimes she thinks that would be a kinder fate. A few weeks ago she might have answered with more certainty that she knew, without a doubt, that there was something between them. That Kurt's objectivity, or lack there of, during their first undercover mission and every other mission before and after that, had more to do with her and less with his boy scout ingrained sense of self-sacrifice and heroism. There still is something there, she can feel it, but so much has happened, between him and her, and all the tattoo cases, and David's death, and his father's terminal illness, and the kiss outside his apartment—

God, _the kiss_. Just the memory of it is enough to make Jane want to barge into the bathroom and kiss him again, while simultaneously resisting the urge to run screaming in the opposite direction.

Here they are, weeks later, still acting as if nothing had happened. Kurt's infamous ability to detach completely from his emotions and pretend as if all is right in the world, combined with her debilitating inability to do anything relatively selfish for herself (as in demanding they talk about it), has kept them in a literal stale mate. So maybe she's been more flirtatious and physical with Kurt this second time around, more in character in accordance with the history of the couple they were pretending to be, in a vain attempt to get a better read on him. Is she imaging the way he looks at her when he thinks she isn't watching? Half of her wonders, while the other half prays that she isn't wrong.

Then again maybe she's taking things far too seriously. Or maybe she's just taking them too far in general.

Jane let's out a breath, something far more complex than just a simple sigh, and she types the last few sentences of the debrief with more force than necessary as her fingers fly across the keyboard. When she hits send on the email, she shuts the laptop with a frustrated groan, and shoves it to the side, curling up on the lounge, a fetal position of vexation. She's mad at herself, at how impossible it seems to keep her emotions in check, to not spend every spare moment she doesn't have focused on the mission on Kurt, on his smile, his lips, how they'd felt against hers, how they might feel _other_ places…

"Christ," Jane mutters under her breath, digging her nails into the palms of her hands, screwing her eyes shut in a desperate attempt to banish the ridiculous thoughts from her mind, despite past experience that's already taught her it doesn't work. Kurt's always there, for one reason or another, whether she wants him to be or not.

She doesn't even want to think about getting up, or the fact that she and Kurt will have to sleep in the same bed together. She doesn't want to think about Tasha's slightly uncomfortable, highly inappropriate comments she'd made on the tarmac back in New York as they walked to their private jet, just out of Kurt's earshot.

 _Do us all a favor, Jane, and screw Weller's head back onto his shoulders, comprende? Get it out of your system._

The double entendre isn't lost on her, but Jane isn't sure what's worse; the fact that she still isn't mortified by Tasha's suggestion, or the realization that she'll never be able to completely get Kurt Weller completely out of her system.


	4. Chapter 4

_**AN:** You guys have no idea how much your reviews mean to me! I am so sorry this update is so long in the making, but I swear I have a little more time to write now, so I'll try to be more on the ball this summer during hiatus. Seriously though, all the feedback is so fun, and I love seeing what y'all have to say, sometimes you crack me up and sometimes it's just nice to see that you're enjoying the story—so thank you, thank you. I promise this is going somewhere, so just bear with me. There is a plot lol! I figure, what the hell, why not have some shameless UST and angst while we can, yeah? Martin Gero is just going to torture us with it anyways, so I'm just preparing y'all ahead of time. Please enjoy this update! xo_

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When Kurt finds Jane asleep on the balcony lounge, he doesn't wake her. He should though, and then he should scold her for falling asleep out in the open like this, but he can't bring himself to do that either. Maybe it's because he knows exactly how little she's slept since they've left New York, and how little she sleeps in general. He's overheard her conversations with Tasha in the hallways at the Bureau, about how she can't sleep, or how the flashbacks and memories she can remember keep her awake at night. Maybe he can't bring himself to wake her up because he can't remember the last time he's ever seen her so peaceful. The gentle rise and fall of her chest is a rhythm that holds him in place as he sits in a chair across from her, a man enchanted, wishing he could let her stay there like that for as long as she needed.

But, just like a lot of other things he wishes he could do for her, he can't.

Kurt stands up from the chair, and scrubs a hand over his face with a yawn. It's late, so late that even the crowds on the beach have dispersed, and the only sounds left in the night are the waves and the wind. In less time then he'd like, the sun will rise, and they'll be meeting with their interpol contacts to go over the protocol again for the meet with Kostas Makris. As much as he'd like to let her sleep, and as much as he's fretted over having to share the single bed with her, he can't in good conscience leave her where she is. Kurt walks to her carefully, and pauses at the edge of the lounge, reaching down one hand to gently rest along her shoulder.

"Jane, gotta get up."

He isn't really thinking about anything other than sleep at this point, he's exhausted, physically and mentally, so when he moves to shake her just a little, to rouse her, he isn't thinking about how she might react. When he curls his fingers against the soft fabric of her shirt, let's them linger a little longer than they should because he can feel how warm she is, he isn't thinking about the fact that it's dark, and that she might not be able to see him. That she might react instinctively, like she always does and always has.

He certainly isn't expecting her to try and punch him.

"Easy!" Kurt jerks backward just as her fist flies past his face, and she's on her feet before he can so much as blink or right himself. When she realizes her assailant isn't an assailant at all, but a wide-eyed Kurt Weller, she drops the defensive immediately, her fists falling open as she curls her arms around herself in sheepish surrender. Kurt swears he can see a tinge of red against her cheeks even in the dim light of the balcony, and the fact that she's embarrassed is oddly endearing, and he has to bite back a grin. It isn't very often he get's to see these private glimpses of her, these rare and random moments of almost girl-like innocence that make him wonder about who she was _before_.

"Sorry," Jane's apology is barely audible, more of a squeak than anything else, her voice cracking, still laced with sleep as she blinks at him, "kinda a light sleeper."

"Noted," Kurt nods, equally apologetic, perhaps equally boyish and sheepish, hand at the back of his neck. He wonders how in all the time they've spent together, he's never bothered to ask her if she slept well before. Is her reflexive nature something born of habit, something she learned out of necessity from her unknown past? Or is it something else, like the things she sees in her sleep, or maybe the things she doesn't. Can someone without memories have nightmares, does she? He almost asks her if she's ok, if the circles under her eyes that likely match his own are the product of more than just the past days exhaustion, but he stops himself.

The opportunity lost, Jane sees her out and slips past him, back into the hotel room, and he trails behind her. All the panic that he's let fester over the past hour suddenly seems so insignificant as they crawl onto their respective sides of the bed, and Kurt's surprised to find her curled toward him when he rolls over after turning the bedside lamp off, the soft planes of her face visible in the shadows. He tucks his hands under the pillow, resists the urge to reach out and touch her, tries to ignore the fact that it's stronger now than it was before. He can't help but notice something's different though, and as he watches Jane, he can't help but notice that there's something less confident, less sure, when she looks at him through the dark.

"Do you think this was a good idea?" She asks quietly, questioningly, unable to hide the hint of doubt at the edges of her words.

He wants to ask her what she means, what _this_ is, if she's talking about the mission, or if she's talking about them.

"Nervous?" Kurt teases, grinning, and Jane responds with a quick kick to his shin. He bites back a curse, scowling, but his eyes remain bright and amused regardless.

"What if something happens tomorrow," Jane continues seriously, scooting closer to him, her voice soft, almost like she's afraid someone might be listening, "you read the files, Makris is ruthless, and we have so many things we couldn't account for… If things go sideways, if something happens..."

"They won't," Kurt assures her, "the people we're pretending to be are virtual ghosts, there's not so much as a speeding ticket in any part of the world that links back to them, let alone pictures, Patterson made sure of that. All we have to do is pretend to be exactly who Makris needs long enough to give interpol the grounds to arrest him. And if something does happen—if he recognizes you, or the tattoos—I'll be right there, Jane. I won't let anything happen to you, I promise."

They both knew going into this that there were obvious dangers, that there were risks, but Kurt can sense it too, the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, the what-ifs that he'd rather not think about if something _were_ to happen.

"You shouldn't do that," Jane murmurs, half-asleep now, but still peering at Kurt through hooded eyes.

"Do what?"

"Make promises you might not be able to keep."

He's quiet for a moment, and he opens his mouth once, twice, to voice some kind of refute, to start an argument, but he realizes that she hasn't just fallen silent. He watches the steady rise and fall of her ribcage, realizes through the shadows that her eyes are shut, and that she's already fallen back asleep.

This time when he reaches for her, out of impulse, and gently pushes the dark waves of hair from her face, Kurt can hear her audible sigh. He can feel her legs shift beneath the sheets and rest against his. He doesn't move away, he can't, because there's no way to defy gravity, and that's the only thing he can compare Jane to; a fundamental force of attraction.

* * *

He isn't surprised when he wakes up in the morning, and he's not sure what's more alarming—that or the fact that he's content to lay exactly where he is for the rest of eternity and never move.

It's the very thing he was terrified would happen, and yet now, waking up to the relentless alarm clock on the nightstand beside the bed, with his arms around Jane's waist, isn't as bad as he'd imagined it would be. And he wonders, in his half-asleep state, why he ever thought being this close to her was a bad idea. His dreams are composed of moments exactly like this, of moments that _precede_ moments like this, and here she is; warm and strong and real against him. Kurt yawns, instinctively draws his arms a little tighter around her slender torso, sighs as he buries his face in the crook of her neck, marveling at how warm her skin is where it's risen up on her stomach just below his hands and how smooth—

"Kurt…"

Then his eyes fly open, and he remember himself, and suddenly her proximity is more akin to something like a wildfire, and he immediately withdraws to his side of the bed like a man burned. He's apart from her before she can draw another breath, or blink, and it's almost as if he'd never been holding her at all.

"Time to get up?" Kurt tries to act like the burst of adrenaline that just hit him isn't sending him into a panic; he pretends to yawn, and stretch, and tilt his head in a lazy loll against the suddenly too-soft pillows to look at the clock beside him. He pretends to be completely in control of everything in this exact moment, despite the fact that his heart is racing in his chest like some love-struck teenager—he's ridiculous, and he knows it. He's never been a morning person, not really, he _likes_ bed, but right here, right now, he's never wanted to be out and away from it any faster. He purposefully refuses to make eye contact with Jane, even though he can feel her green eyes boring into him with a curious intensity that he doesn't want to confront right now, or admit is there.

Blessedly, Jane follows his lead, and she doesn't ask him questions about why he'd wound up practically spooning her. She doesn't force him to have the conversation they've been dancing around ever since they stepped off the plane and onto the island. She actually rolls up and out of the bed before he does, stretching and rolling her shoulders before making a less than subtle bee-line to the bathroom. He sees it, that slightly nervous, uncertain tick in the way she walks, in the way she doesn't meet his eyes while he watches her. This Jane is different from the Jane he sat with at the bar last night, less certain, and certainly less brave. It gives him a little comfort, at least, knowing that she's feels it too, the tug and pull that's still there between them. It's been there for a while now, ever since that night outside his apartment, and ever since that goddamn kiss. They both know it's there. They both pretend it's not.

"Cashel will be here by seven, to debrief us," Jane reminds him, pausing at the bathroom door, and she finally meets his eyes. Blue and green, caught up in a hesitant battle of wills, trying to speak without words and failing, as always.

Kurt nods, recalling the face of their interpol contact, the tall, broad-shouldered Irish-man that greeted them at the airstrip upon their arrival and given them the rundown of how the meet with Makris would hopefully play out—if all went well. If, that lingering, unnerving _if_ ; it eats at Kurt now, leaves a bad taste in his mouth. With a sigh he rolls over and sits up along the edge of the bed, watching Jane as she lingers in the bathroom door, watching him with a distracted look on his face.

"Something wrong?" Kurt asks, nonchalant, feigning ignorance. He already knows the answer to his own question.

 _A lot of things_ , he thinks. He holds his breath, waiting for her to not answer, like she usually doesn't, or waiting for the tables to turn, for her to to say the things he imagines she bottles up, for her to surprise him. She's always surprises him though, whether she intends to or not, he imagines that's not something that'll ever change.

Jane shifts, leans her weight back on her heels, and suddenly her facial expression changes just the slightest. Kurt can see it, the slight upward curve of the outermost edges of his lips, the near impossible beginnings of the grin he's become so infatuated with despite his best efforts not to be. When he scowls at her, half-heartedly, demanding she explain herself without actually having to ask her, the grin only becomes more apparent. Jane becomes more bright, and Kurt realizes with sudden, incapacitating clarity that he would do anything to see her like that all the time. To see her happy.

"You talk in you sleep," Jane says simply, and the grin on her face turns into a full fledged smile before she spins and disappears behind the bathroom door.


	5. Chapter 5

Cassius Quinn's seen his fair share of undercover operations. With four years in Ireland's Army Ranger Wing of the IDF under his belt, on top of his six years with his current Interpol Taskforce, for which he is now team leader, there's not much Cassius hasn't seen. His adventures vary from rickshaw races in Bangladesh, to foot chases through Tel Aviv, to busting Jihadi sleeper cells in Amsterdam. He's well traveled and well seasoned, and he's lives and breathes his job like oxygen; he's made it a habit of putting men like Kostas Makris away for a living. So needless to say he and his team were less than thrilled when the powers that be decided to intervene, saddling him with two American FBI agents to play babysitter on one of the most corrupt islands in the Mediterranean while they hijacked _their_ mission.

Mykonos is a strange place, but Cassius thinks the two FBI agents might give the rest of the island populous a run for their money. He can't lie; he stared the first time he met Agent Doe, and despite his quick correction of attention, they all noticed.

"That's the point though, isn't it?" Agent Doe had said of her tattoos later on, in a moment of private conversation when Agent Weller was out of ear shot. "If I'm connected to any of this, we want to get Makris' attention." Cassius had been surprised by the woman's audacity, but also quietly impressed—he decided then that maybe he wouldn't have to do so much babysitting after all.

However, Cassius is nothing if not thorough in everything he does, especially work. So he'd prepped Agent Weller and Agent Doe on Makris until he'd spewed so much information about the mans past that he feels like he's regurgitating every word from every file and every sound bite from every video verbatim. He plans to do so again this morning, to make sure they know their mark just as well as they seem to know their covers—which is another mystery in itself entirely.

His entire team could have sworn up and down, and bet all their recent World Cup pooling to boot, on the fact that those two were surely sleeping together. When they'd both vehemently denied it, while together and when asked separately, Cassius made a note to figure out what the Federal Bureau's new training system for undercover operations consisted of, because it damn well worked.

Cassius steps onto the service elevator, dressed to the nines in his swanky resort-issue bell hop attire. If it weren't for his naturally charming demeanor and disarming smile, the six-foot tall Irishman might seem out especially of place amongst the other employees of Mykonos Grand Hotel, but really he's not so out of place at all. It wasn't uncommon to see hotel employees more suited to the life of a bouncer or security guard or soldier making their way unassumingly through the halls of the resort amongst the _normal_ hotel workers. Makris has always been fond of keeping his things safe, and he pays handsomely to make sure it stays that way. Mercenaries tired of life on the lam find their second calling here, on Markis' payroll and the white sands of Grecian beaches, a criminals proverbial paradise.

So here they are, hours away from possible putting them all away for good. Cassius pulls at the collar of his outfit as the elevator rolls to a stop at the first floor, reminded of just how much he hates suits of any kind, before he returns to a smiling picture of perfection as he steps off the elevator, and into the growing throng of people crowding the resort lobby. He makes a beeline for the private hallway that leads to the beach level suits, and begins the long walk to the end to where Agents Doe and Weller's room is located.

"So far so good, boss?" A familiar voice echoes in his ear, and Cassius grins.

"So far so good, Morgan," Cassius murmurs under his breath, but loud enough for his second in command, Emilia Morgan, to hear him from the other end of their coms link.

"Not to derail your focus or anythin', but do ya think they'll have their clothes on when ya get there?" Emilia taunts mercilessly in her clipped British accent from her seat back at the safe house, following Cassius via several monitors linked to the hotel security system as he passes through the different cameras. "Sayid says they were gettin' frisky at the bar last night, I'm not buying that they're not gettin' off too."

"Guess we'll see before too long, eh?" Cassius chuckles just as he arrives at the door to the suit, and he raises his fist to wrap his knuckles against the wood, followed by a rather amused, " _room service!_ "

* * *

Jane most definitely has her clothes on, and so does Kurt.

She checks her reflection in the full length standing mirror inside the bathroom, somehow feeling out of place and in her element all at one as she examines the black cocktail dress that came with her mission wardrobe for this specific occasion. Makris' is hosting a business professional brunch for his business partners, new and old, on his private tenth floor at the top of the resort. It'll be their chance to get close to him, to establish a connection as potential new clients and valuable assets to his crime regime, and the in they need to incriminate him—if they can gain his trust and get close enough.

"Missing something?" Kurt asks, appearing behind her, and Jane's eyes shift from her reflection to his, suddenly very aware of just how close he is—so close she can feel the lapels of his sports coat brush her shoulder blades. It's true, Kurt Weller cleans up well, and he looks especially debonair in a suit. The look is even more appealing as he dangles her red stilettos over her shoulder, and Jane can't help but laugh internally at the absurdity of it all; they look like the belong in some edition of Vogue magazine; models gone wild. With her tattoos and Kurt's open collared, five o'clock shadow look, they definitely scream unconventional.

 _You want Makris to notice you_ , Jane reminds herself, beating back the nerves, _that's why you're hear, to find out if he might know something you don't, and to stop him from hurting anyone else while you're at it._

"You look beautiful," Kurt comments as Jane takes the heels from him, boyish and bashful, and she can't help the way her face flushes. "But I don't like it, _Mrs. Harding_ ," he adds as an afterthought, resting his hands along her shoulders as he emphasizes on their cover surname, grinning at her confused expression peering back at him in the mirror.

"Oh really?" Jane raise an eye brow, spinning around to face him, her heels in her right hand, the left now splayed against his chest, the band of her ring digging in as a reminder, "and why is that, _Mr. Harding_?"

"People like to stare at beautiful women, but I'd rather they not stare at my wife," Kurt continues grinning, "I suppose you could call me the jealous type."

Jane scowls at him, yanking his lapel once for good measure, but Kurt simply shrugs, blue eyes laughing at her. He's just as unapologetic as he'd been that day at Rich Dot Com's party when he'd all but jumped the security guards who'd made a pass at her. She has to admit, undercover persona or not, Jane likes that he refuses to take his eyes off her whenever they're in a room together. She'd like to think, that maybe, in those moments the covers bleed into reality, that he's really looking at _her_ that way, and not the woman he's pretending to be married to.

Just like he's looking at her _now_.

Jane swallows, and the bathroom, despite being gargantuan by most standards, suddenly becomes so much smaller. Kurt seems so much closer, and the warmth of her cheeks spreads to the rest of her limbs until every inch of her skin is prickling simply because of his proximity. For the millionth time she reimagines that night outside his apartment, she thinks about just how easy it would be to close the distance…

Kurt's head dips forward, but he stops himself, fighting, staying just out of reach like he always has.

"Jane…"

She holds her breath.

And then knock at the door causes both of them to jump out of their skins.

" _Room service!_ "

They recognize the deep tenor of Cassius' voice instantly, and just like that the moment between them is gone, again. Kurt steps away from her immediately, the spell broken. Whatever he'd almost said to her, whatever he'd been thinking about, is instantly replaced with the urgency of the mission. Part of her is thankful, glad that this is finally starting, that she'll be able to focus on the job in front of them.

The other part wonders, desperately, what Kurt would have said.

* * *

"You two clean up nice," Cassius compliments as he shuts the door behind him, following Kurt and Jane into the open area of the room, pulling an unmarked envelope out from beneath his uniform where he'd stowed it for safe keeping. Aside from Reade, Jane hasn't met anyone as tall built or broad shouldered as Kurt, and Cassius Quinn is easily both.

"Today's dossier, before your brunch," Cassius hands the envelope to Kurt, who promptly opens it, Jane waiting expectantly at his shoulder. "As you're already very aware, Makris likes to make a spectacle of everything, his business parties included. There will be many, many high profile people there, some very likely on your most wanted list, but today Makris is our only concern, understood?"

"Of course," Jane answers for both of them, and Kurt nods in agreement.

"Fantastic, let's get on with the important stuff then," Cassius gestures to the envelope in Kurt's hand. "The entire reason we're here is to get evidence that will allow us to make an arrest, which you'd think would be easy enough with a man like Makris' who's criminal record spans continents. Unfortunately for us, and fortunately for him, he has a bang up defense team that's kept him safe in court. But today, we're going to try and change our luck, and get what we need to nail the bastard to the wall."

"Sounds fantastic," Kurt echoes with a wry grin, "how do we do it?"

"Makris' parties are always held on the tenth floor, in your envelope there are blueprints that show you where the private entryway to a separate second elevator is located. It takes you to an unknown eleventh level—this is where Makris' office is."

"And you want us to get inside the office," Jane looks at the blueprints as Kurt fishes them out of the envelope, handing them to her. She looks up to Cassius for confirmation, and he nods.

"According to an inside source this particular office houses a set of secure servers that store Makris' past business transactions and itineraries, if you will."

"So a blood trail?" Kurt asks stone faced, glancing up to meet Cassius' stern gaze.

"You could call it that," Cassius replies diplomatically, trying for a grin, but it's more like a grimace, "past missions, client lists, people he's murdered, other he's extorted and blackmailed and left for dead—it's all there on one of those servers. The file is encrypted, and protected by state of the art technology as these bad guys love to do, but if we can get to it we have people who can crack the code; and that's how we'll get him behind bars."

"So this could expose everything," Jane breathes out, the enormity of the situation finally sinking in, "this could end him."

"And possible give us more trails to follow," Kurt adds quietly, "more ways to find answers for you, Jane."

"So we need to get inside that office," Cassius continues, "once your in, the USB drive in that envelope can be connected to any USB port, and Emilia will be able to handle the rest for us from there. She'll need five minutes to get to the file and copy it to the drive. The good news is it's undetectable by metal detectors or high frequency scanners, so you won't have to worry about them finding it."

"The bad news?" Kurt asks, eyes narrowed.

"The bad news is Makris' only conducts his most important business transactions in that office, if he does them there at all. Rumor has it that two other arms dealers have put bids in on a job for Makris in the Middle East, a job James and Gwen Harding would excel at, making their competition pale in comparison, I gather…" Cassius grins, his smile wide, as if he's issuing them a challenge instead of debriefing them on the most important mission of their lives, "It'd be the perfect opportunity, don't you think?"

"Well then, sweetheart," Kurt looks back down at the blueprints, and then fishes the USB drive from the bottom of the envelope before holding it out to Jane, "I suppose we have some military grade munitions to sell this afternoon, would you like to join me?"

Jane takes the very small, very important piece of technology and examines it, before placing it carefully in the hidden pocket in the lining of her clutch. She glances from Cassius, then back to Kurt, a wicked grin forming on her lips as she falls into the roll she's worked so hard to perfect; a woman who's spent her entire life terrifying the likes of men like Makris for a living.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

* * *

 _ **AN:** the long awaited fifth chapter in our mission fic installment! Thank y'all for sticking with me, I can't wait to see what you think about this. The ball is finally rolling, and it's currently in Jane and Kurt's court so to speak. We'll get to meet Mr. Makris up close and personal in the next chapter, so get ready! As always, thank you for all the kind reviews and words of encouragement; I write for you! Let me know what you think. I did a brief study on writing accents for stories, but I know that my Irish and British slang is probably not up to par, so many apologies for any errors. Feel free to correct me and make suggestions. :)_


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